Montauk, '92
by wordsandpages
Summary: Sally is seventeen years old, a high school dropout with no family to speak of. Her Uncle Rich's death leaves her free to do what she wants for the first time in her life. She finds a summer job in Montauk - who knows where it will take her?
1. Chapter 1

The highway stretches out before me as far as I can see. Which, admittedly, is not very far in the wet New York weather. So far away from the city, the traffic is less murderous but the rain is merciless. The road signs tell me it's at least another hour 'til I reach Montauk.

Montauk. A new town. A new job. A new beginning. God knows I need a new start. New York City, the city of dreams, has nothing for me. I'm almost eighteen years old, a high school dropout, with no diploma and no college to go to. Even New York can't make dreams come true for someone like me. I dropped out of school to take care of Uncle Rich while he battled his cancer but now that he's gone, I have to find a way to get back to life.

Last month, the fast-food chain I flipped burgers for laid me off. My manager, a short and fat guy who looked like he greased his hair with the deep-fryer oil, had looked at me pityingly. "We're so sorry, Sally," he'd said, "You are a valuable worker but your services are no longer required."

_If I'm so valuable, why are you letting me go? _I'd wanted to say. But I'd kept quiet, collected my last pay packet and walked out the door like the good girl my uncle had always told me to be. The next week, one of the girls who I worked with called me and told me that the manager had given my job to his niece. Figures.

Still, I had a rent and bills to pay for. I couldn't think of a single kid my age that had to even think about things like that, but I wasn't ungrateful. I know there are people in this city who have it even worse. But the money Uncle Rich left wouldn't last forever and I needed a job. I asked in cafes, stores that sold clothes and stores that sold hardware and more. I offered to waitress or bus tables, fold clothes, deliver newspapers and even clean toilets. Every single employer looked at me and said, "Sorry, kid."

It was by chance that I came across the ad for a waitress needed in Montauk. After my uncle's death, there was no way I keep living in his spacious, expensive upstate apartment so I moved myself downtown. My new place was basically a large room with a bed, a stove and window but it was cheap. The other tenants were either ancient or recluses. On the ground floor, a Hispanic couple ran a small store out of their apartment, selling bread, milk and newspapers for cheap.

The ad was hanging on the corkboard when I went to get my milk; it's cheaper that in the supermarkets and usually a few good days left. The corkboard hangs next to the door for locals to put up notices about old swing-sets for sale, missing pets, births, deaths – whatever they feel is newsworthy. I always check the notices, partly because I like knowing if Mrs. Thomas found her cat and when Mr. Simpson's granddaughter was born, but mostly because I'm always hoping someone is looking for a babysitter or a maid – anything.

The notice was hanging next to a hand-scrawled poster for a missing dog and an advertisement for used baby clothes.

HELP WANTED – _Cafe Elpida, Montauk _  
Waitress needed for the summer. Experience required. Will pay minimum wage.  
Cooking skills are preferable.  
For further information call (631) 555-0125

I called with no hope of actually getting the job. Montauk is busy in the summer and no doubt a hundred girls have already called. When I rang, no one answered until the eight ring.

"Hello, Liza speaking," the woman on the line had a gravelly, low voice. I could hear someone shouting orders behind her and the clanging of pots and pans. "You gotta speak up, doll. It's chaos in here. _Y'all keep it down back there!_" She'd added to the kitchen staff.

"Hello," I'd said, my voice shaking. I'd never been all that good at talking to strangers, "My name is Sally Jackson and I was calling about the waitressing job? At the, uh, Cafe Elpida?"

"Yeah, you got the right place," she'd said, "But you're a little late, darlin'. Gave the job away this morning."

"Oh." I hadn't even tried to hide the disappointment in my voice. "Well, thank you anyway."

"Hey, listen, my caller ID says you're calling from New York. You calling from New York City?"

"I am."

Liza chuckled, the sound crackly on the line. "Well, ain't they got jobs in the Big Apple?"

I laughed too, just for the sake of it. "No one wants a high school dropout, ma'am. Not even to flip burgers."

Liza whistled but I didn't know what to make of that. "That's a bust, sweetheart. Can you cook? Wait tables?"

My heart had lifted a little. "I-I can. I worked a burger joint for six months and an Italian restaurant for a couple of months before that..." I began, tripping over my words.

"Shoot, that'll do," Liza had said. "Can you make it to Montauk for the weekend? Always get a rush the first week of summer and an extra set of hands won't do no harm. Now, listen, I don't know how long I can give you this job for, doll. And it's minimum wage, no exceptions."

Liza hadn't really been overly appreciative of my gushing. "Just get here for 8 o' clock sharp on Saturday morning. I don't do second chances."

I recount the conversation now as I make my way down to Montauk. I don't know what I'll be expected to do but even minimum wage is better than nothing. Right at this moment, I don't even care. I need this getaway.


	2. Chapter 2

Montauk beach doesn't yet look like the idyllic holiday destination the flyers made it look like. The sky above is a cloudy grey and the air smells like rain. Still, there is something to be said for the way the streets look after rainfall and the way the small crabs follow the tide back to the ocean. It seems as good a place as any to make a fresh start.

Before coming, I had made plans with a woman that ran a B&B to stay the summer. She'd agreed to let me pay half the rate in exchange for making up beds and doing some light cleaning which was generous. I'd calculated that with the new job, I would be able to pay for the apartment in New York and a room for at least ten weeks before money became a serious issue.

I pull up outside the address that Moira, the proprietress had given me over the phone. "It's not the prettiest house on the block," she'd said, somewhat apologetically, "But it stands up ok." Looking at it face to face, I seriously hope she was right.

The building has an overall dilapidated look that makes it look like it's leaning to the left, about to tip over at any moment. The walls, at some point, must have been painted orange because there are still patches where the paint hasn't peeled away. The shutters too must have not been hanging on rusty hinges. The front porch sags a little and looks like it could easily give away under your feet. But there's a _garden_. Growing up in New York, the largest bit of greenery I've seen is Central Park. It's always been one of my favourite places, especially in spring, but I've always wished to live somewhere with a garden. The lawn is overgrown and there are weeds pushing through the tall grass. The apple tree by the front gate looks tired. But it's still beautiful in its own shabby way.

I can't help but let out a soft sigh of pleasure. With a bit of paint and a good lawnmower, this could look like something out of a picture book.

I drag my suitcase up the front path – or what I can see of it under the over grass that's attacked it – and pull it up the porch steps. I ring the doorbell and wait for someone to answer. I start to think no one is home when I hear shuffling inside and the door swings open.

"Oh, God!" the woman, most probably Moira, exclaims when she sees me standing there, "I am so sorry! I knew I'd put my keys down _somewhere_ but...Oh, come on in!"

Moira looks so flustered that I'm not sure what I should say. She's tiny, barely over five feet, with curly, shoulder-length hair dyed a violent shade of red. She's rather plump, but in a matronly way, and her skin is pale and freckled. She's dressed in a red kaftan with some sort of Bohemian print and hard hands are streaked with paint.

"I was in my studio," she explains when she sees me looking at her hands, "It's in the basement." She fans her face exaggeratedly as if to explain that's why it took her so long to get the door.

"It's ok," I say, "Thank you so much for letting me stay here, I really app –"

"Oh, don't worry about that!" Moira laughs, waving her hand dismissively. "I could use the help around here. Do you want some lemonade?"

She doesn't wait for me to reply but instead, she makes her way down the hallway and ushers for me to follow. The narrow hall is cluttered in a homely way. In the hallway stands a chair missing its seat, a wobbly coat-rack and shoes that Moira kicks out of the way as she passes them. The walls a bright green and covered with photos and paintings of the beach that I think must be Moira's own. If they are, she's very talented.

"Did you paint these?" I ask as we pass them.

"Hm? Oh, yes," she answers, looking pleased that I noticed.

The kitchen space she leads me into is just as cluttered as I expected. The countertops are covered in cookbooks, clean plates that were never put away and discarded mugs of coffee. There is barely any room for the kitchen appliances. There is a shelf of knick-knacks, those hideously endearing souvenirs that seaside towns specialise in, and a large framed photo of Moira with a beaming blonde woman hangs on one of the yellow walls.

"Make yourself comfortable," she says, pointing to a small breakfast table with two chairs. On one of them, a fat orange cat snores contentedly so I choose the other. "I forgot to mention Travis. I hope you're not allergic to cats!"

I tell her I'm not but I've barely finished my sentence before she starts up again. "Strictly speaking, Sally, I may have exaggerated a little about this being a B&B. It's more of a bed and breakfast in progress. As in, it will be once I get a licence and, you know, start running it. As of now, it's just a house."

"You mean I'm not even supposed to be here?" How come she hadn't told me about this on the phone? "Is this even legal?"

"Don't worry, we won't get in trouble," Moira laughs as she pours the lemonade but she sounds a little unsure, "I'm just renting out a room. People are allowed to do that, right? And the house is perfectly safe!"

I think about the saggy porch and the broken shutters. I'm not entirely sure she's right. But it's the best I've got.

"Don't back out on me, Sally," Moira says a little sadly. When she looks at me, it feels like I have known her for years even though I've barely spoken to her. "I _need_ this."

"The money?"

"Well, yes," she sighs, "And the company."

I think about it. I need company too. I have no family, not really, and I need a place to stay. Moira seems perfectly nice, if a little eccentric.

"So, where will I be sleeping?"


	3. Chapter 3

I wake in the morning with that unsure feeling you get when you wake up in a new room. My room, which is small but cozy and surprisingly uncluttered, is bathed in yellow early morning sunlight which streams in from the gaps in the shutters.

Overnight, I've fallen in love with this place. After eating a dinner of microwave chicken pot pie (Moira, it turns out, is no cook despite her extensive cook book collection), I sat by the window and watched the sea until I grew tired. The moon pulled her tide and the promenade lights glittered against the black night in the most captivating way. I loved everything about Montauk; I fell in love with the way it looked, the way it sounded, the way it _was_.

It's barely seven but already the day is bright and shaping up to be hot. Any traces of yesterday's downpour are gone and the sun makes the sea shine. It's breathtaking.

I shower quickly, putting on a white sundress and sandals since I don't have a uniform and Liza didn't give me a dress code. Moira is either asleep or down in her studio when I get downstairs for breakfast. Since it's so nice outside, I grab some toast and decide to eat on my way.

Outside, the air is sticky and humid. If it's this hot now, I can't imagine what it will be like at midday. In New York City, the streets are cool under the shadows of the tall skyscrapers. But it feels heavenly to have the sun kiss my skin and a warm breeze ruffle my hair.

The walk into the town centre is short. The centre is small with boxy stores painted shades of pastel. They have hand-painted signs above their doors and striped awnings. The windows displayed handmade jewelry, souvenirs, local delicatessen and more. It was idyllic, a fairy tale land right here in New York state. The whole thing looked like something out my daydreams.

Cafe Elpida stands overlooking the promenade. It's small with white walls and a blue awning. It is not yet open but Liza had told me to go around to the back. I follow a narrow path around to the back of the cafe and the quiet peace of the front disappears. The back door to the kitchen is open and from inside comes the sounds of kitchen staff hollering to "move those plates" and "shift those tinned beans, for God's sake!" With it come the sound of loud, Mediterranean music and a warbling voice I recognize as Liza's from the phone sings along.

Nervously, I walk up the steps. I knock on the door out of politeness but it's clear no one can hear. From the commotion, it sounds like an entire circus is in here but really, there are only five people. The kitchen is spotless and the staff is busy at work already, greasing pans and cracking eggs.

"Um, hello?" I call out over the noise. Immediately, everyone stops and I can feel their gazes boring into me. I shift uncomfortably in the doorway. "I'm Sally Jackson."

"Doll!" A large, African-American woman exclaims. She stops beating the eggs and comes towards me. She's both tall and wide, with a wide grin, a heaving bosom and dark brown hair held back by a bandana. "I'm Liza," she says and pulls me into a hug.

She turns to the others in the room and declares, "Y'all, this is Sally. She's gonna be giving us a hand around here."

"Lord knows we need it," a rake-thin man with a handlebar mustache says from in front of the stove. "Mason," he adds. I assume he means that's his name.

"Mason here's the sous-chef," Liza explains, "We got Lucille who's kitchen staff," – a pretty blonde girl waves – "Jean who's the other waitress," – a girl my age in a white dress similar to mine (thank god) smiles at me – "and Don...Where'd he go?"

"Here," a boy's voice comes from a large metal door to an industrial refrigerator. The boy himself immerges, wiping his hands on his white apron. He's around eighteen or nineteen and so tall that he has to duck to come out of the doorway. His skin is tanned, like he spends a lot of time outside, and he has the brightest green eyes I have ever seen. He pushes his dark hair out of his eyes and smiles in a way that says _'I'm gorgeous and I know it'_. "I'm Don."

"Don's our fish expert," Liza says but I barely hear her.

Don is, hands down, the most attractive boy I have ever laid my eyes on. True, he knows it, but I can't help but agree. His lopsided grin is infectious and I find myself smiling, forgetting my shyness even though this boy should have reduced me to a stuttering mess. I'm not sure I trust myself to speak without making a fool out of myself so I just smile at everybody.

"Well, enough lollygagging," Liza scolds, ushering everyone back to their work stations, "Breakfast rush starts in fifteen minutes, folks. Sally come with me so I explain how things work around here. You know how to make an omelet."

The way she says it makes it seem like she's not really asking a question but I answer anyway. "Yes," I reply.

"Good," she says, handing me some eggs, "Make yourself useful while I talk. Now, we are a Mediterranean restaurant. My grandfather was Greek and when he came over, he built this here restaurant and married himself an African lady. Talk about mingling, eh?" She chuckles at her own family history before continuing. "And here we are, two generations later, still going strong. For some reason, folks like to come here and eat foreign food – I don't know, maybe it makes the whole vacation seem more exotic. They come here for breakfast, lunch and dinner and you work for breakfast, lunch and dinner, got that?"

"Yes, ma'am," I say, beating the eggs as fast as I can.

"Good girl," Liza smiles. "Now, you waitress when we need you to. You chop vegetables when we need you to. You clean up after the six-year-old that ate too much ice cream because his momma ain't raising him right vomits on the floor if we need you to. You do all that and you get to make yourself something nice for lunch and you keep all your tips."

"Yes, ma'am," I repeat.

"Now, what I need you to do is go on out there, raise the shutters and flip the sign on the door to _open_. And you wait with your pen and your writing pad and take down the orders, ok? If they ask, today's special is omelet with salmon and asparagus like it is every morning but don't go telling them the last part. If they ask for a recommendation, you say the same thing. Go!"

I don't get to sit down until my break at one-thirty in the afternoon, in the post lunch-rush lull. The morning passes in a whirlwind of taking orders and carrying heavy trays from the kitchen to the restaurant and back again. I barley get a chance to speak to the other workers except for yelling orders at them. At the end of the morning, the orders turn seamlessly from omelets to _moussaka _and I've made twelve dollars in tips.

I fix myself a chicken salad like Liza said and take my lunch out to sit on the back steps with Lucille and Jean, the other girls.

"Hey, Sally," Lucille smiles warmly when I join them. She looks a few years older than me, maybe in her twenties, and she's pretty. "It's chaos, isn't it?" She rolls her eyes and flicks her hair flawlessly. NO way she doesn't practice that move in the mirror. "Jean here started yesterday."

Jean nods and mumbles "Yeah," through a mouthful of salad. After swallowing, she adds, "But it has its perks."

The girls giggle and I have no doubt they're talking about Don. I try to repress a smile; I don't even know him.

"Oh, come on!" Lucille laughs, tossing her hair again. "He's _gorgeous_! He's, like, Liza's Greek cousin's son or something. He's just here for the summer but, my, what a summer it's been!"

They laugh again and this time I join in though nothing is actually that funny. I haven't spent time with anyone my age in a long time. I think you're supposed to laugh anyway.

"What does he even do?" I ask.

"He gets the fish," Jean answers. She's got a thin face and a big nose. She has mousy brown hair and brown eyes with a dusting of freckles across her nose. She's not especially pretty but she seems friendly enough. "Like, you know from the sea? Fresh for the food. He always gets the best ones, too. Liza says they're going to go downhill when he leaves."

"And the fishy smell isn't even a turn-off," Lucille grins. Jean nods eagerly I notice she has a way of hanging on to Lucille's every word, as if hoping to absorb some of her natural prettiness by listening hard to them. "Let me tell you, if that boy asked me out, I wouldn't even think twice about it."

"But you _have _a boyfriend," Jean says.

"Uh, Brad would be history in seconds," Lucille laughs.

I don't give it too much thought. I barely have the time to – as soon as I finish my food, Liza's telling me to get a move on and get to the dirty dishes.

When I get up to leave, I see someone standing just around the corner of the building. Don. He heard everything.


	4. Chapter 4

I see Don watching me from the shadows with a sly grin on his face. I feel my face flush which only embarrasses me even more. I duck head and disappear without a word back inside. I can hear him chuckle quietly behind me.

The rest of the day passes quickly. I grow accustomed to the fast pace of the kitchen and learn to keep a smile plastered on my face for the customers. At the end of the day, I've made thirty-four dollars plus twenty-five dollars in tips. It's been a good day and, despite the whirlwind chaos, I've enjoyed myself.

I wave goodbye to Lucille and Jean at the end of the street and decide to take a walk along the promenade before heading back to Moira's house. I lean against the railing and look out across the ocean to the flaming setting sun. The tide is out and the water glows gold under the setting sun. A seagull caws from its perch on a streetlight and tucks its head under its wing to rest awhile. Now that the shops and cafes have shut, most of the tourists have gone back to their hotels and the street is quiet except for the soft roaring of the ocean against the rocks. In the distance, the candy-cane lighthouse sparks to life, a beacon on the horizon.

If I had stayed in school and gone on to college, I would have loved to be a writer. If I'd lived in a place like this, I could written whole books about the way the whole town changes from the bustling morning to the quiet nights. I've had an active imagination even since I could remember. As a kid, I would see things that weren't there all the time. Sometimes, my Uncle Rich would get so humiliated. I remember being in line at the grocery store one time and pointing to a tall man in a dark coat and a bowler hat and saying, "Look, Uncle Rich! That man is a Cyclops!"

It's something I ignore now though I haven't really grown out of it. Sometimes, I'll walk past a lady and swear her legs were made of snakes. But it always turns out that they were wearing snakeskin boots when I look again. It could make for a great story someday: a girl that sees Greek myths come to life in New York City. I laugh to myself; would anybody ever read that?

"Hey, Sally." Don. He'd come up behind me so silently that I hadn't even notices. Now he's right beside me and I can't even pretend like I haven't seen him. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" He nods towards the ocean. The way he says it isn't offhand or just a blasé statement but as if he really means it, like he's never seen anything more beautiful.

"Yeah, it is," I reply. I had thought maybe things would be awkward between us after him overhearing the girls talk about how attractive he was at lunch. But his comment and the easy way he starts up the conversation makes any unease disappear. "I could stand here all day and I still don't think I would be done taking it in."

Don look at me, a little surprised. I wish I hadn't shared the last part. I don't even know why I said it. It just came out. If he thinks it's unusual, he doesn't say anything about it. He does smile and when he does, I am struck by how his eyes are the exact same shade as the ocean. They'd looked green earlier today but now, they look more like a dark gray flecked with gold, like the fading sunlight on the water. He asks, "What were you thinking about?"

"Oh, nothing," I shrug. There is no way I am telling him about my daydreams about writing and seeing snake-ladies in New York. "I should be getting back, anyway."

"Hey, has anyone shown you around town?" he says as I start to walk away.

I stop and turn to face him. Is he asking me out? I haven't actually ever been asked out before so I don't really know how to tell. But a gorgeous guy like him with so many girls fawning over him – pretty girls like Lucille – wouldn't go for me. I can feel myself blushing again. "Um, no," I reply, wishing my voice hadn't come out so girlishly high.

"Good," he says with that infectious, lopsided smile, "After work tomorrow, I'll show you around, okay?"

"Okay."


	5. Chapter 5

When I let myself in through the front door at The Bay View (strictly speaking, it's just Moira's house but it feels strange to admit that to myself), the house smells like burning.

"Moira?" I call out. I barley know the woman but I don't want her to be hurt.

"In the kitchen!" she yells back.

The kitchen is still tinted grey from the smoke. Moira has managed to clear most of it but opening the windows but some still lingers. The room reeks. Travis, the cat, hides his face under his paws when he comes in as if to say _you should have stayed out there_.

"What happened in here?" I ask, covering my nose with my hand to stop myself breathing in the smoke. I come back from one chaotic kitchen – albeit a smoke-free one – to another.

"I was making cake," Moira answers like it should be obvious.

I laugh a little and slip off my sandals. I have to remember to take then back to my room; I don't want to start the Moira habit of kicking them off just anywhere. "I'm not sure cake is supposed to look like _that_," I say, waving my hands in the air and gesturing to the cloud of smoke that still lingers.

Moira sighs, a little sadly but with some humour behind it. "I was never good at things like this," she says, "That was always Rebecca's job." She doesn't explain who Rebecca is but her eyes flit to the picture of her with the blonde woman that hangs on the wall. I don't ask her about it, figuring that she would tell me if she felt it was appropriate.

"Well come on," I say, making my way over the sink to wash my hands. "We can still have cake."

We spend the next hour measuring flour, beating eggs, whipping icing sugar into butter-cream and licking the frosting. Moira's laugh fills up the whole kitchen. I wonder what her story is, how she ended up living alone in this rundown house with only a cat for company. I know she must be lonely. In the time I have been here, her phone hasn't rung even once and the only mail she seems to get is flyers from the local fast food places and leaflets encouraging her to join the Church. She doesn't seem to have any friends or neighbours that pop their heads over the fence to say hello. I know what living alone feels like and I wouldn't wish it on anybody.

I hope, while I watch her put the cake mix into the mould, that she feels glad for my company. I feel glad for hers.

We sip on homemade lemonade – the one thing Moira makes perfectly – while sitting at the breakfast table. Travis seems a lot more content now that the smoke has cleared and purrs in Moira's lap. A soft song plays on the radio, the words indistinguishable but soothing at the same time.

"What are you doing after this summer, Sally?" Moira asks me gently.

If we are going to live together, I may as well tell her. "I don't know," I admit. "Get a new job? I want to enrol at some night classes." She looks both surprised and interested at that so I go on. "I, uh, I want to be a writer someday. I've loved books ever since I can remember, much more than people. I used to live in them. I would swear I saw the fantastical creatures from them in real life: Cyclops in the supermarket, a Minotaur in the subway, a Nemean lion at the zoo. It used to drive my uncle crazy when I told him so I started writing down what I saw. Or thought I saw. But when he got sick...well, I gave up everything, really. I want to go back to it somehow. I want to write."

Moira looks at me. I think the look in her eyes is respect. "You should do it, Sally," she says. She sounds sincere, not like a guidance councillor making empty suggestions. "It's a wonderful thing to want to create something. All the best people make things. Sure, someone needs to _do_ things – we need doctors to fix our broken bones, we need bankers to keep track of our money. But we need more people in the world that _make_ things. We need painters, writers and activists to make pictures and stories and cause that make us _feel._ It's what makes us human. Having an imagination is a wonderful thing. It makes you different. If you're lucky enough to be different, Sally, don't run from it. Embrace it. Some people will laugh at you because you're not the same as them but you gotta laugh back, kid. You laugh right back them because they're all the same. My sister, Rebecca, the woman in that picture, told me that if you want your life to mean something, you're going to have to live it yourself, and there's no point in living the same way they do. I remember it every day. You should too."

I feel a lump grow in my throat. Moira squeezes my hand and I squeeze back. I don't think I will ever forget what she said.


	6. Chapter 6

I wake in the middle of the night to bang which echoes in my head. In my sleepy state, I can't place where it came from but I sit up, rub my eyes and switch on the bedside lamp. I look around the room in the dim light but nothing seems out of place.

A storm is raging outside and I can hear the wind howl. Thunder rumbles loudly in the distance and I swear I can hear the roar of the ocean all the way from here.

_Bang!_

I jump as the sound comes again and my heart pounds in my chest. One of the shutters in the windows flaps on its hinges, threatening to come loose at any moment.

_It was just the shutter_, I tell myself. I put a hand up to my heart as if it will help it calm down a little but, of course, it does nothing.

I slide out of bed, shivering a little at how surprisingly cold the room is, and make my way to the window. I have to find a way secure the shutter so I can get a good night's sleep. My toes curl at the coolness of the floorboards as I make my way barefoot to shut it.

As I reach to pull the shutter closed, a bolt of lightning forks across the sky. It's gone in a matter of seconds, a flash of purple in the sky, gone in the blink of an eye. In the storm, it is impossible to see anything but the pitch black sky but something about the night is strangely mesmerising. It makes me linger, waiting for something more. The cool wind sends shivers down my spine but I shrug them off and wait.

For several moments, there is nothing but the soft echoing of thunder and the splattering of raindrops against my skin. But then, another flash of lightning, a brilliant blue, splits the sky in two. And in the light, I swear I see something – some_one_ – down on the beach. That's impossible; it's high tide and in such a storm going down to the beach would be suicide. I strain my eyes to see.

And the most impossible thing is the fact that I _can_.

It feels like I can see through the storm, through the mist which obscured my vision just moments before. And I am surer now than even that there is a person on the beach. Not just one but two. It is difficult to make out their features but they are both impossible tall, with broad shoulders and determination in their strides. They face each other as if ready to battle. As more lightning crackles above their heads, I see one of them is a large man, almost ten feet tall, in with black hair and a drenched pinstripe suit. And he's holding a lightning bolt in his bare hands!

I must be dreaming. There is no way this is real.

When the thunder rumbles, I hear voices behind it, as if the voices itself are echoing across the sky. A deep, rumbling voice rings out. "You cannot do this, Poseidon! You have a vow to honour!"

The voices are so loud that I fear they're in my head. I cover my ears, try to shut them out but it is no use. This must be a nightmare. How do I wake up?

I begin to turn away from the window but in another flash, I see the face of the other man. And that is how I know I must be dreaming.

Because the other man looks just like Don. Only this Don is several feet tall, dressed in a flapping Hawaiian shirt, surprisingly dry despite standing in the pouring rain in the swirling ocean. In his hands, he carries a long spear. No, it's not a spear – it's a _trident_.

He doesn't move his mouth, but his voice, the voice that I heard face to face just a few hours ago thunders across the sky, just like the other. It pierces through the roaring of the wind, its anger chilling me to the bone.

"You stay out of this, Zeus!" his voice growls. "She is none of your concern! You leave her alone!"

"How can I?" the other man, Zeus, demands angrily, "How can I ignore her when you have already chosen her? I cannot let you break the oath!"

"Oh, like you broke it?"

"That was different!" Zeus shouts wildly, his rage causing lightning to spark brilliantly in the inky sky. "My daughter will have to suffer the consequences. Do you want your child to face the same challenges?"

"That is beyond my control, brother," Don, this manifestation of him, replies, "I cannot change the decision of the Fates."

"You will bring ruin upon us _all_!" Zeus bellows.

He raises his fist, the one that clutches the bolt of lightning, pulsating in its pure form, and raises it towards the sky. The man who is not Don raises his trident and the sea roars around them. A radiant, white explosion fires across the sky. The sea rises to meet it. The collision is so forceful, it rattles the house, knocking me off my feet and blinding me.

When I look outside again, the storm rages on but the men on the beach are gone. There is no evidence that they had ever been there at all. My vision is blurry, my stance unstable as I carry myself back to bed, unable to tell whether I dreamt it.

What frightens me most is the conviction that it hadn't been a dream at all.


	7. Chapter 7

I wake in the morning feeling more tired than when I went to sleep. My bones ache with fatigue and the strange dream I had replays itself in my head. I stumble around, half awake, trying to get ready for work without collapsing.

_Work_. I remember Don in my dream, towering and powerful, godlike to say the least, and the fury in his voice. I don't know if I will be able to look at him the same way; that image of him is hard to shake off. I haven't forgotten that he offered to show me around Montauk either. Rather than seeming exciting, the whole prospect sounds a little daunting.

The aftermath of the storm is evident on the beach. Washed up seaweed, driftwood and debris lie strewn across the shrapnel like the remnants of a war. The weather, though sunny, is several degrees colder and the sea a flat, uninviting grey. The few tourists that have ventured outside drape towels and sarongs around them and shiver under their beach umbrellas, probably wishing they had stayed inside. I am glad for the jeans and light cardigan I opted for. At least it keeps the chill out.

The mood in the Cafe Elpida kitchen, however, has not wavered. Liza greets me just as cheerfully and Mason, the sous-chef, breaks off from the country-pop song on the radio that he is attempting to sing in order to wish me a good morning.

There is no sign of Don yet, a fact that Lucille and Jean look a little put out by. The weather has been unkind to Lucille's hair which she is attempting to smooth down with tap water and some olive oil she's smuggled behind Liza's back.

"Can you believe this weather?" she grumbles when I go to the sink to wash my hand. "I mean, what is even the point of living in a beach town if it's going to be cold? The whole ocean view thing is so overrated."

Jean nods in agreement from her devoted place next to Lucille. "Totally," she says. Her head bobs so hard, I am sure it would have rolled right off it hadn't been secured to her shoulders. She adds an emphatic "Ugh," for emphasis.

"And obviously Don bailed," Lucille says, rolling her eyes, "I swear, whenever we have bad weather, he shows up half an hour late in a bad mood."

I smile but I wish she hadn't said that. It does nothing to dispel the memories of last night when, in my dream, it looked almost like Don had been controlling the storm.

"Why you girls dilly-dallying?" Liza yells, making Lucille roll her eyes and Jean scurry back to her work station. I follow behind her, picking up an egg beater on my way. "I ain't paying you to stand around and gossip about that boy!"

At the mention of Don, he strides in, carrying a basket of fresh fish. The scowl on his face suggests he's in a foul mood. His eyes are cloudy and a flat grey and his hair tousled like he hasn't slept. I guess I'm not the only one.

"'Morning, King of the Ocean," Liza says sarcastically. "What time do you call this? Because I call it late."

Don smiles a little at her good-natured humour and sets down the fish. "Liza, I call it a hard day for fishing."

Liza whistles in appreciation at his catch and he says, "They were not cooperating today. Something about stormy conditions, something about how _someone_ needs to cut them some slack."

"Boy, you need to stop talking like you can speak to those fish," Mason laughs, pulling a huge salmon from the basked and cutting its head clean off with a cleaver.

"Ah, but I can," Don whispers loudly. He looks at me and winks, like I'm in on some private joke. I laugh in spite of myself, seeing him not as a towering figure from a dream but as a teenage boy.

"Go put the rest of the fish away, Don," Liza scolds, "We are running a kitchen here, not a death trap."

Don feigns annoyance and picks up the basket once again, heading over to the refrigerator. As he passes by me, he says quietly, "Are you still on for tonight, Sally?"

It's quiet enough that the others don't hear but I can't help but feel self-conscious. I tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear and look straight at him. Spending a lot of home meant I had a lot time to watch TV and I've seen how the confident girls do it in the movies. Shoulders back, head held high and smile like you know you're pretty. In my case, I wasn't sure of the latter part but I fake it anyway. "Of course," I smile.

Maybe I am seeing things again, but I could swear that I see the colour of his eyes change right in front of me, going from the dark gray to a calm sea green. Up close, it's enough to make you breath catch in your throat.

* * *

Liza reckons that if God could rest on Sunday, she can too. She closes the restaurant after lunch, letting us take baggies of food home for our families or, in my case, Moira.

"See y'all tomorrow," she says as she waves us off before going back in for final checks and locking up the cupboards.

Mason has a rusty bike which he unchains from the drainpipe and he takes off down the path. Lucille and Jean linger with me and Don.

"What are you guys up to tonight?" Lucille asks, tossing her hair in her practiced move. "We could go to the movies, you know. I hear that new Batman movie is supposed to be good."

Don shakes his head and says, "I'm busy tonight, Luce. Plus Batman is highly overrated. All that lfying around? Not my style."

Lucille, though she looks a little upset about the rejection, looks thoroughly pleased at the nickname. "Maybe next weekend, then?"

"Maybe," Don smiles.

"See you, Sally," Lucille waves and Jean follows after her. I try not to feel bad that they didn't ask me to go see the movie with them. I mean, I haven't known them for very long. Still, there is something utterly satisfying about saying you have plans and actually meaning it and I would have liked to have said it, even once.

Lucille blonde hair disappears down the path, followed by Jean's bobbing ponytail. When they're out of sight, Don look at me and smiles. If I was being dramatic, I would say that smile could end wars and bring dictators to their knees. But since I'm being realistic, I'll say that that smile if breathless was a moment, it would be right here, right now.

"Are you ready, Sally?" Don asks.

I am.


	8. Chapter 8

I have never been out in Montauk at this time since I've only been here a couple of days and I was working in the afternoon. It is a whole new world to today's grey start. The weather has cleared up and the beach is crowded with people. The cries of seagulls and the kids that chase them, the calls of street vendors and the distant jingle of an ice-cream truck provides the soundtrack to the sunny afternoon. The streets are crowded with tourists and locals who all turn to stare as Don walks by.

And who wouldn't? I can't believe that I am with him. I know Lucille, who is taller, prettier and a lot more charming would kill for a chance like this. He must have girls falling at his feet – so why me? I shake the thoughts from my head; it doesn't do me any good to dwell on it and I'm bordering dangerously close to self pity, a feeling I avoid at all costs.

"Hey, Don?" I say instead. I am amazed at how confident I sound but then, the thing that shocks me most is how comfortable I feel around him.

"Yeah?" He looks at me and grins. God, he needs to stop doing that. It makes me stomach do summersaults every time.

"You're a pretty terrible tour guide, you know. We must have passed at least one significant landmark by now and you've said nothing."

"Was I supposed to be a tour guide?" Don laughs, "I was under the impression I was your date."

I laugh too and shake my head. "I don't recall you ever asked me. And what makes you think I would have said yes?"

"Why, have you got a boyfriend at home?" he asks, suddenly looking serious.

"No," I reply, "But why would that be the only reason? My, someone thinks highly of themselves! Did it ever occur to you that maybe if you asked me out – which you didn't, by the way – I might have just...declined?"

He frowns like he hadn't ever thought about it. I bet usually he just has to look at a girl and they're already ready to sign their names on wedding certificate. "It hadn't, actually. But would you have said no?"

"Well, how would I know? You never asked me."

Don smiles so widely, I can't believe the whole street hasn't turned to look. All on a sudden, he stops dead, not even bothering to apologise to the man that almost crashes into him. He drops to his knees, holding out hid hand in front of him with a devilish grin. "Oh, Sally," he says in a loud, dramatic voice, clutching his heart with his other hand, "I beg of you please, _please_, would you do me the honour of accompanying me on a humble date?"

People are stopping to stare and some have even got their cameras out. I feel my face flush, feel the heat of it in my cheeks. "Stop it!" I whisper, partly embarrassed but also trying not to laugh. He looks ridiculous. "People are looking!"

"Oh, I cannot!" he declares, faking desperation, "I cannot move until you accept my offer. Will you please be my date?"

I shake my head and laugh. I repeat his words back to him, "I was under the impression that I already was."

He laughs, a sound that makes my heart leap in a way it never has before, and rises to his feet. A few people around us clap and he bows, ever the charmer. When they've turned away again, he looks at me. He holds out his hand and I take it, his fingers sliding perfectly into the spaces between mine.

"Let's go," he says.

I look into his ocean eyes and I know I would follow him anywhere. A handful of minutes. That is all it took for me to give my heart away to this boy.

* * *

"The best thing – the _only _thing as far as I'm concerned – that's even worth eating in this town is the fish," Don announces as we walk down the promenade. "You hungry?"

I am. I hadn't even noticed but as soon as he mentions it, my stomach rumbles. "Yes," I reply, "But we're headed the wrong way. The restaurants are all back the way we came."

Don sniffs like he's offended by the idea. "You don't eat restaurant fish!" he says indignantly, "You catch it, you fry it on the beach and then you eat it. That is the one and only way."

He is so determined that I don't have the heart to argue. He's my guide, my date, and right now, I would eat about anything. I saw a couple shucking oysters back in a small seafood cafe which had looked disgusting but I would be willing to try even that.

We walk past the prettily painted stores and leave the town lights behind. The street turns narrow, winding off away from the main beach. Don walks straight ahead with conviction and I figure he knows where he's going better than I do. The houses along the street turned smaller and look a little worn down, more like Moira's house than dollhouses in the town centre. I wonder if maybe he is taking me to where he lived. That seems to be moving a little fast and I was begging to doubt whether this was even such a god idea when he stops.

"You trust me, right?" he asks, tugging on my hand. He can't keep still and he'd bouncing on the balls of his feet. His wide green eyes and hopeful smile makes it impossible to say no. And I realise I don't want to.

"Yes," I reply.

"Good," he beams, "Follow me."

I have no other choice but to follow since he practically drags me down a narrow gravel path around the corner of a small house. A sign declares this private access to the beach, residents only. It makes my heart thump a little, knowing I'm doing something against the rules. I can't remember the last time I did anything even remotely rebellious. It's actually pretty thrilling.

The path widens out to a set of stone steps that lead down to the private stretch of beach. Unlike the tourist area, it is deserted apart from a man walking his dog. It's small and much rockier than the main stretch but it's stunning. Although the main shoreline is beautiful with its bright colours and tourist bustle, this beach is the epitome of peace. Even the sea looks more tranquil, like it's holding its breath.

"Don, it's beautiful down here," I say quietly. Though I know we probably won't get in trouble, I don't want to break the silence.

"This isn't even the best part," Don says and pulls me off the steps and on to the sand.

I stop to take of my pumps and feel the sand beneath my feet for the first time since I've been here. It envelopes my feet, inviting me to bury my whole body in it. I feel tempted to but I keep moving.

"Know what rocks are good for?" Don asks. When I shrug, he says, "Rock pools. And rock pools are good for fish."

"Yeah, small fish," I say, "Not the type you can eat, right?"

"Wrong," Don says grinning. He doesn't elaborate. It must be some kind of fisherman's secret. "I'll race you. On three?"

"Sure," I smile back. "Three."

I take of sprinting towards the rocks and I hear Don complain that it's not fair. He catches up with me in seconds and grabs me around the waist, lifting me off the ground. I laugh so hard the sound carries in the wind. The beach echoes with it. When my feet touch the ground again, I barely feel it.

Don looks at me, his face inches from mine. We're so close; I can feel his breath on my lips. I could spend forever memorising every line, every freckle, every eyelash, memorising him in this moment. His eyes shine with something like hope but there's a worry beyond his years, a worry that looks hundreds of years old, behind his expression. I think – I _hope_ – that maybe he'll kiss me.

I've only ever kissed one boy, one time. It was in my sophomore year, my last year, at a party. He kissed me because his friends dared him and it was awful. But with Don, I feel like it would be different. It could be everything I had ever dreamed of, my first real kiss.

He leans closer to me, our lips almost touching. But the sky above erupts in a loud rumble of thunder and he looks up, just for a split second. When he looks back at me, the moment is gone. He steps away with a small, apologetic smile.

"How about them rock pools?"

I say nothing, afraid my disappointment will show, so I walk behind him to a shallow pool he stands next to. The trick, he says, is staying still and being really quiet. It's not hard to do when I don't really have anything to say. I study his face while he stares into the water. He has strong features, a classic face. It looks familiar because it's the kind of face artists like to give to gods in those classic paintings of the Olympians in their togas. There's a crease between his eyebrows as he concentrates on the water, like he's trying to call he fish to him.

Suddenly, he reaches into the water and pulls out a squirming red fish.

"Oh my God!" I exclaim as he yanks it out of the water. "How is that even possible?"

It's a red snapper, I recognise it from one of Uncle Rich's fishing books. But do they even swim this far out into shallow water? It's impossible.

"How did you do that?" I ask.

"Do what?" Don stills the fish with ease. The times I'd been fishing with my uncle, it had taken him a few tries until the fish stopped flipping.

"Catch that? You have to catch it far out into the sea."

Don winks. "Fisherman's secret."

We collect dry driftwood from the beach, dragging the pieces back to a pile away from the shore by a cluster of rocks. When we've got enough, Don lights a fire and stakes the fish. We eat it in silence, using our fingers. It's childish but every time our fingers touch when we reach for it at the same time, I feel butterflies take off in my stomach.

When we finish, we lean against the rocks, side by side, and we watch the sea. I don't even notice the sun go down around us.

* * *

**UPDATE: Sorry to those who read this and spotted the mistake in the formatting! The first section pasted twice but I've fixed it now. Thanks for not judging me for my technology failure :)**


	9. Chapter 9

The afternoon rolls on like a conversation with an old friend. My stomach is full with the fish which was surprisingly good, despite my doubts. Sand cakes my feet as if claiming them as their own and the sun in my eyes is enough to lull me to sleep.

After a while, Don says, "What's your story, Sally?"

For the first time today, I feel truly uncomfortable. My life isn't something I like to talk about, not because I am ashamed of it, but because people never quite treat me the same way after I have told them. Some look at me pityingly and I can see that in their eyes, I am an unfortunate and lonely child. Others purse their lips and frown and ask me about my future. What will I do without a high school degree? I know to them, I will never amount to much more than the girl with a weekend job flipping burgers. Well, that's not true; they must eventually expect me to flip burgers all the other days of the week too.

An unwanted memory surfaces and I can't push it away. A scene replays itself in my head from two years ago. It was in my sophomore year and it was a few weeks before my sixteenth birthday. The month before, Uncle Rich's cancer had come back full force. Before, he could manage by himself at home while I was in school but lately, he'd needed help to do simple things, like pouring milk into his cereal because his hands shook so bad.

I had been at my friend Angela Darling's house. Her parents were very rich: her dad was a lawyer and her mother had a boutique on Fifth Avenue. They lived in the penthouse of their apartment building, all those rooms just for three people and a few yapping dogs. Angela herself had declared herself my friend on account of how she'd liked the way I did my hair. Other than our tastes in hairstyles, we hadn't had much in common. Uncle Rich had paid for me to go to a good school but most of the kids there wore designer labels and had their shoes polished by maids of whom they spoke with disdain. I was used to rummaging the sales racks at J C Penney's for my fanciest clothes and my shoes had never been polished because I didn't like riding the subway dolled up like a princess while the homeless looked on. Still, I wasn't going to say no when a popular girl like Angela wanted me to be her friend.

We'd been sitting in her pastel pink bedroom and Angela had been showing me some new dresses she'd bought. In the middle of modelling a floral yellow number, her mother had walked in. Mrs Darling looked like a supermodel and dressed like one. She wore a lot of red lipstick and always smelt of Chanel No. 5. She wore a gold filigree cross around her neck, a twin of the one she had bought Angela on her sixteenth birthday. Angela looked at her like she was a goddess and, to be honest, I think I did too.

She'd sat herself down on Angela's bed and asked me outright, "So, Sal, what's eating you?"

I had thought, then, how magical it was that she'd detected right off that something was wrong. Angela hadn't noticed and she was my best friend. In my naivety and sweet trust in that woman, I told her everything. I told her of how bad Uncle Rich had gotten and how he wouldn't go to sick homes where they nurse you because he was too proud. I told her how I had to wait outside the door when he went to the bathroom in case he slipped and fell, how I wouldn't be allowed to go out with my friends on the weekends any more. They were the complaints of a shallow girl and I would take them all back if I could. Uncle Rich had raised me and given me everything I had ever needed. The thought of ever saying such things about him makes me cringe.

But the worst thing I said, looking back on it, was not the secrets I'd spilled about Uncle Rich's health to a high society woman. It was six words – six words that reduced me from being her daughter's best friend, a girl to invite over for lunch and to call "Sal" in an affectionate way, to worthless city girl. "I am thinking of leaving school," I had said.

I had seen every good thing she'd ever thought about me crumble in her eyes at that moment. She'd clutched her filigree cross like she did when Mr Darling said a bad word at the dinner table. Except it was much worse. "W-what about your _future_, Sally?" she'd spluttered. She rattled off a list of jobs high school dropouts had: waitresses, maids, cleaners, nannies and – she'd whispered the last, fanning her face – _prostitutes. _She told me I was making the wrong decision, that good girls do not on any account leave their paid-for private education. She said, "You are being stupid."

I had felt my heart grow heavy in my chest. Nothing I said would make that woman see me the same way again. I told her I'd been thinking about it for a while now and that Uncle Rich was the most important person to me in the world. "In fact," I'd said while trying to clutch at my composure, "I think I should return to him right now."

She had not stopped me. Angela hadn't either. I hadn't even looked at her as I walked out of her house for the last time. The last image I have of my ex-best friend is her twirling in a yellow rose-patterned dress.

I had stormed out of the building, holding back the sobs I knew would come. I had raced down the hallways and, finally, curled up in the elevator and cried.

I had never gone back to Angela's house again.

I taste the bitter humiliation in my mouth as I shift next to Don. I have been silent for far too long and he's looking at me quizzically.

"We don't have to talk about if you don't want to," he says, a little too late. Not talking about it would make it seem worse than it is. I figured that if he was going to judge me, I may as well tell him now before I fall any further.

"No, it's ok," I say. I look out to the ocean, avoiding his face, as I speak. "When I was five years old, my parents took me on my first plane ride. They were taking me to Canada for my summer vacation because I'd wanted to see the Niagara Falls. On the way there, something went wrong and the plane crashed. I don't remember much, actually. I remember fear but that's it. I remember landing in the ocean and then being put on a boat. That night, my Uncle Rich came to pick me up from the hospital and he'd told me that my mom and dad had died. It's funny, I have a picture of me with my parents and in it, there is a woman with blonde hair and a man with blue eyes but I don't remember them at all.

"Uncle Rich took me to live with him in New York. He brought me up. He was a great man and I loved him, I really did. He could be so difficult at times but on the weekends, he'd always take me to Central Park and then to the library. He taught me to love words, you know. He'd give me a word like _tsundoku _or _psiturism _and I would look them up in this huge dictionary that he had in his study. 'Nothing tastes as good as a new word on your tongue,' he'd say.

"Then, when I was ten, he sat me down and made me hot chocolate. Hot chocolate meant that the library was going to be shut this weekend or that my goldfish had died. Hot chocolate never meant anything good. That day, he told me the doctor's thought he had cancer. That night, I heard him cry in his bedroom and I didn't sleep for a week. I waited outside his bedroom door every morning to make sure he came out.

"He had chemotherapy for a year and the cancer went away. He was fit again and everything was back to normal. Then, one day a few years later, I got called to the principal's office in school and he told me there was someone on the phone for me. It was my uncle's doctor telling me Uncle Rich had relapsed. Uncle Rich became so weak. It killed me to see him that way, with his sunken cheeks and shaking hands. I know it killed him to see himself like that.

"A month later, in my sophomore year of high school, he fell in the kitchen. He hit his head on the table and, normally, he would have gotten up and gone back to making his tea. Maybe he would have taken some Advil. But that time, he didn't get up and he ended up spending the next week in Intensive Care. When he came home, I knew I had to leave school. I couldn't imagine anything worse than coming home and finding Uncle Rich dead because I hadn't been there to call an ambulance or help him get back up. So I did. I quit school. I spent my time looking after Uncle Rich.

"He died a year ago and I've been working odd jobs wherever I can to get by. That's my story."

I can't bring myself to look at Don. I wouldn't be able to stand it if I turned to look at him and saw pity, or worse disgust, in his eyes. I feel my eyes prick with tears; I haven't spoken about this to anyone so openly. I blink them away and force myself to look at Don.

And what I see throws me. Because the look in his eyes is understanding. His expression is heavy with it. I want to kick myself for not thinking, even for a second, that Don might actually get what I was going through, the confident boy with the flirtatious smile might have problems too. The past few years have trained me to expect the worst. And I don't know how to handle the best.

"I understand," Don says softly, "My family...Well, my family isn't perfect. It seems like we can never get together without one of us wanting to kill another and the relationships get so complicated that if I started to tell you about them, the stories would go on for thousands of years."

I feel grateful that he hasn't tried to console me or tell me things are alright. Sometimes they're not. Every family has its problems. Some families can patch things up with trips to the library and a book of words. Sometimes families are broken, terrible and unfixable. It doesn't_ have_ to be okay. Families are allowed to be messy and loud and erratic. You're allowed to love them and hate them or feel so many things all at once at the thought of them that you don't even know how you feel. No family is perfect but it's knowing where you stand with them, how you stand in them, that is the most important part. It has always been that way to me. I'm glad someone finally understands.

"Maybe you will tell me about them someday," I say to Don, leaning against his shoulder. "Maybe we will live for a thousand years."

I feel his words against my scalp when he says, "Sally, I hope so."

The red sun bleeds out across the horizon, dipping behind the sea to rest for the night. Don rises to stand and offers me a hand. I take it and we head back home.


	10. Chapter 10

**AN: I am so sorry for the late update. It's exam season where I live so finding time to write more is difficult. If it's exam season where you are too, you know how it is and I wish you the best of luck! To everyone, thank you so much for reading!**

* * *

After that day on the beach, being with Don feels so easy. I have never felt so comfortable or so happy around somebody. I feel like I can tell him anything and talking about my past, my hopes for the future – none of that feels hard. But even though I have told him all there is to know about me, he still seems a little guarded.

"It's too complicated," he says reservedly whenever I ask about his life, "Another time."

Over the days that we spend together, after work or whenever we have a spare moment, he does tell me stories. He knows more myths and legends than any other person I have known, especially about the sea. He tells me stories of fantastic creatures, mermaids, _hippocampi _and more, and when he tells them, it's as if he's lived the myths. When I am with him, I can imagine the legends too clearly and sometimes, I can swear I saw a mermaid with my own eyes. At first, I don't tell him this though; I don't want him to think I'm crazy.

But one day, I'd sat with him while he was fishing. He had been telling me a story about _nereids, _water spirits that are terrible flirts. I was looking down at the water, imagining their pale blue skin and flowing hair as he described them to me and for a moment, a face flashed under the water. The face of a woman just like a _nereid_'s. But she was gone in an instant, scared off by something. I turned my head just in time to see a spark of gold – a trident. When I'd blinked and looked again, I just saw the gleam of the sun on Don's fishing rod.

"That's funny," I'd said, "For a second your fishing rod looked just like a trident."

Don had laughed but, for some reason, his face had gotten paler. I had tried not to think about that dream I'd had about him, a dream that seemed to be from years ago now, but that image of Don wouldn't get out of my head.

And despite our time together, he still hasn't kissed me. Sometimes, I think he will, like back on the beach. We come so close, standing eye to eye, smiling. But the smiles die on our lips as he always pulls away. I try to ignore the twisting feeling of disappointment in my gut but I can't.

After almost three weeks, I get a rare day off from work. Liza has a wedding to go to in New Jersey and she suggested we all take the day off. It's the first that I've had since coming to Montauk and I intend to spend every minute of it with Don.

"Are you off with that boy again?" Moira asks after I clear away the breakfast things and hurriedly do the buckles on my sandals. She tries to sound concerned but I know she likes Don. Last week, he helped me pull out all the weeds in the garden which looks beautiful with its newly mown grass and summer blooms.

"Yeah," I reply, "There's some casserole in the fridge and fruit salad too. I don't know when I'll be back so don't wait up or anything."

"I know how to take care of myself," Moira chuckles, "And you _will_ be coming back, right?"

It take me a beat to figure what she means, and when I do, I flush. "Yes, Moira, God. I'll be back. See you later."

It's a beautiful day and Don asked me to meet him at our beach. It's a much longer walk than going to work but I don't mind the trip. The warm sun and the sound of the surf are perfect. Plus, knowing that Don will be waiting is enough to make me walk faster. I hope today's the day when he opens up a little more. He knows more about me than anyone else and I'm just curious. We haven't known each other long and I don't expect to be the most important person in his life but it would be nice to listen to him tell me more than fantasy stories.

Halfway down the promenade I hear someone call my name and I slow down. I turn around and see Lucille waving from a stall selling sunglasses. She's holding hands with the guy behind the table. The boy who's running the stall must be her boyfriend, Brad. She motions for me come over so I backtrack and make my way to them.

"Sally!" she says, giving me a hug, "You look nice. Special occasion?" She sounds a little suspicious and I can't help but wonder if she asked me to come over to say hi or just pry.

I look down at the beaded sandals I'd bought from a beachfront store here and the dress I'm wearing. It was my grandmother's, white, with robin's egg blue embroidery. I see Lucille scrutinising my wardrobe and I self-consciously fiddling with the dangly silver earrings I'd chosen to wear on a whim. I am more dressed-up than I usually am but I feel awkward talking to Lucille about what I'm doing; I know she wouldn't like it.

"Uh, I'm meeting someone, actually," I reply, trying to sound casual.

"Don?"

"Yeah."

Lucille's smile falters. "You know, Sally," she says in a suddenly sharp tone, "That's not really very nice of you. You know Jean has, like, the biggest crush on the guy."

I can't help but bristle at that. I know who she's talking about and I know it's not about Jean at all. She's talking about herself and it's clear as day. She's the one with a crush on Dom and she's mad because he never asked her out. Behind her, her boyfriend clears his throat uncomfortably but she ignores him.

"I mean," Lucille continues, "Did you even consider that?"

"Look, Lucille," I say as calmly as I can manage, "People don't belong to people. You can't call dibs. And I'm sorry if you or Jean feel about it but Don asked me –"

"You didn't have to say yes!" Lucille snaps.

"But I wanted to," I shoot back, sounding angrier than I intended, "What I want matters too."

"You are possible the most selfish person I have ever met," Lucille says, rolling her eyes. "Just go. I don't even want to talk to you anymore."

Walking away feels like admitting defeat but it's not like I have any other choice. I refuse to let the anger I feel towards Lucille and her pathetic double standards ruin my day. With every step I take away from her burning glare, I can feel my anger dissolve, little by little, until it's almost completely gone. If I keep dwelling on it, she'll win. Working with her will be a nightmare tomorrow but for today, I want to forget about her.

When I get to the beach, Don is already there, waiting. He looks out across the sea, looking proud of its brilliant blue as if he had created the colour himself. He's dressed in a colourful Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts and his feet are bare. He looks so peaceful that I almost don't want to disturb him but he probably felt my gaze because he turns around and beams.

I swear, one day he'll kill me with that smile.

"Hey," he calls out, putting his hand out, "Come here."

I close the few feet between us and take his hand. He pulls me close into an embrace and I smell the sea on his skin. He must have gone swimming but he feels dry and warm. I don't want to pull away but he does and leads me to sit against the rocks.

"So I was out here the other day," he says quietly, like he's telling me a secret, "And I was just sitting here thinking that I have to do something that will sweep you off your feet."

"You already have," I say and then immediately wish I hadn't. It sounds so corny said out loud. But Don looks happy that I said it and his eyes shine like they invented the colour blue. It makes it worth it, despite the regret I feel.

"Good," he says softly, "Because you did too, the moment I saw you in that kitchen. And I know I – uh – I haven't known you very long but I feel closer to you than anyone else I've known in my life." He sounds a little nervous and this is the most personal thing he's said to me to date. I reach up and touch his face, leaning my forehead against his. "You're special, Sally. I mean it. I haven't ever met anyone like you."

I laugh a little. His words make my heart skip a beat and I want to believe them, I really do. "You say that like you've met thousands of women," I say. I hope that's not true. I hope he didn't tell them the same thing.

"You _are_ different, Sally," he insists. He doesn't deny that he's had a lot girlfriends but does it really matter? Isn't the most important thing that he's with me now, that chose me and not any one of the beautiful girls here in Montauk? I let the thought that I am his, even for a moment, comfort me as I lean against him. "When we're together, I want the those moments to last forever. You make me feel so happy. Before I met you, I can't even remember the last time I genuinely felt happy. I have never met someone that makes me forget about my past and the person I used to be. You make forget all that and think of nothing but I person I want to be, the person I am when I'm with you. Sally, I love you."

_I love you?_ I can't work out if he really said that or some crazy, romantic part of my mind made it up. I can barely hear over the sound of the blood roaring in my ears. Do I feel the same way? I have never been so comfortable around someone before. He makes me feel special and as if _I_ matter. Not what grades I got or which family I come from but _me._ And I love every moment I spend with him. Is this love? If love is a breathless feeling and stories spun from sunlit days then I love him.

When I say it to myself, I can't deny the sureness of it: I love him. I love everything about him, from his smile to the way he makes me feel. Some love must be built on years of conversations and kisses in the dark but this love – _my _love – isn't any less real.

"I love you too," I say.

He puts his lips against mine, kissing me for the first time. It feels like nothing I have ever known, so beautiful and heartbreaking at the same time. I feel like there is nothing but the feel of our lips against each others, his fingers in my hair and against my skin. He kisses me again and again, as if making up for the lost days, and each kiss is hungrier than the last. I wrap my arms around his neck and intertwine my fingers with his hair, pulling him closer. The feeling of being so wrapped up with someone is stiflingly intoxicating.

Around us, the breeze is suddenly cool against my skin. Don shifts his head away and turns to the sky which is beginning to look as if a storm might be rolling in. "You need to get home," he says, his voice firm and serious. "Now, before this storm comes in."

"Moira's house is too far away, Don," I say, standing up and brushing the sand off my grandma's dress, "We can wait in a cafe or something..."

"No, I can't go with you," he insists, guiding me towards the steps.

"What do you mean?" I demand, I stand firm and look directly at him. His expression, which moments ago was so happy, is cloudy and panicked. "You can't stay here!"

Dry lightning cracks across the sky, splitting it in two. The sun is totally blocked by heavy, grey rain clouds though no rain falls yet. Lightning, blue and crackling with energy, forks across the clouds again. It's so bright that I have to shield my eyes.

What is this?

I swear I can see a figure emerging from the exact place the appeared to hit the water. But that can't be possible. Don and I are the only people down here and there is no way the man could have headed out so near the water without us seeing.

"No!" Don yells at the man in the distance. So I'm not the only one who sees him. "No, you can't do this! Not while she's here!"

I feel fear twist my gut and I clutch Don's hand. The way Don is shouting at the man makes me think he's dangerous and I my heart pounds against my ribcage. I mutter a silent prayer to anyone that's listening up there to not let this be the last day of my life.

"Perhaps you should have considered that before telling her all our secrets," says the man. "Before telling her about our world so carelessly."

He stands only a few feet away from us and it chills me to the bone when I see his face. It is the man from my nightmare. The man who I saw fighting with Don that night there was a storm. Though he is not towering like in my nightmare, the man is tall and wears the same pinstriped suit.

"Zeus," the name escapes my lips before I can hold them back. I am not supposed to know. I shouldn't have said it.

"She sees who I am," the man says, surprised, "Poseidon, this girl sees through the Mist!"

Don looks at me and I see his expression change from shock to fear. "Zeus, she's not dangerous! Let us go!"

Zeus's fist crackles with electricity and that's when I notice the lightning bolt he clutches in his hand. "I know what you want with her, Poseidon," he says angrily, "I cannot let you do this."

"You cannot kill an innocent woman!" Don shouts back. In his hand, a golden trident – just like the one I swore I saw a few days ago – materialises. He turns to me and says, "Sally, listen to me. You have to go, ok? You have to go." He's trying his best to stay calm but I can see the fear in his eyes.

"I love you," I say to him. I am surprised how strong my voice sounds because I feel like a mess. "I am not going anywhere."

"Courage is admirable, young lady," Zeus says, "But it will get you nowhere. Not today."

"Zeus, this is _my _turf," Don yells at him, "You can't hurt her here!"

Zeus looks down and his eyes widen at the rapidly approaching tide. Don – Poseidon – must be controlling it. His face is twisted with concentration as he aims his trident at the water which rushes towards us, pooling around our feet.

"Fine. If you do this, Poseidon," Zeus says in a warning tone, "You have to live with the consequences. Any harm that befalls this woman will be your own fault. I can't claim any responsibility for the danger you are going to bring into her life. You do this, it's on you."

"What is he talking about?" I ask, my voice shaking.

"You'll find out soon enough, my dear," Zeus sneers.

Brilliant blue lightning forks across the sky again, the air around us cracking with electricity. I feel the energy coming off from Zeus from where I stand.

"Look away!" Don shouts just in time, shielding me with his body, as Zeus disappears in a flash of gold light.

And then it starts to pour.

The cold rain soaks through my clothes, down to my skin, and mix with the tears that flow from my eyes. I'm not sure when I started crying but now I can't stop. Sobs threaten to break me in half with their force. I feel Don's arms goo around me and he whispers that it will be okay, but I know it won't. Nothing will be the same again.

"What just happened, Don?" I cry against his chest.

"We need to go home, Sally," he says, "Come with me and I'll tell you everything. I promise."

I step away from him and he starts to walk away, not towards the steps that lead to the dry land but towards the ocean.

"Come with me."


	11. Chapter 11

**AN: I was really not happy at all with the last few chapters. Making Sally react negatively to finding out she was pregnant put me into a corner I couldn't get out of and it was just not working out at all. The secondary characters seemed disregarded and I apologise for any confusion but I'm hoping this alternative works better. There are only mild changes in Chapter 11 and major ones in 12 and 13.**

* * *

I stand on the shore, shivering from the cold rain that seeps through my clothes, and watch Don. I want to trust him but how can I now that I know how much he hasn't told me? I can't deny that a part of me, the part that loves him unconditionally, wants to go with him. But another part of me, the practical part of me, holds me back from following him blindly.

Don sees me hesitate and for a moment he looks disappointed. But he turns to the ocean and points his trident at the waves like he had done to bring the tide in. Except this time, the water around his feet starts swirling. It twists and writhes, almost as if it was solid, around his feet and spirals into a circular shape, almost like a crater in the water.

"Please just come and take a look at this," he begs. My heart wrenches at the urgency in his voice. No matter how much of his life he has hidden from me, I can't say no when he sounds like that, like he's desperate for me to trust him again.

I take slow steps across the wet sand and take my place beside him, further away than I would have stood normally but close enough for me to see what he wants me to see. He motions for me to peer into the crater and I do. I gasp at what I see because what Don has created is a portal to another world. The mouth of the crater has no bottom and opens out to reveal an entire city hidden under the ocean. It must be thousands of feet below surface but it look close enough to jump into safely. I can make out gleaming marble buildings and green fires which their sconces.

"What is this place?" I ask, mesmerised by what I see.

"It's, uh, my kingdom," Don replies, "It's my home. Zeus can't touch you there. You'll be safe there, Sally, I promise. Safer than you would be on land."

His kingdom. I can't pretend anymore that I don't understand what is happening. Don is Poseidon, god of the sea, just like I saw in my dream. It probably wasn't a dream at all. Such a thing should be impossible but what else could be the explanation? If I want answers, only Don can give me them. I have no other choice than to do as he says.

"All I have to do is jump?"

"Yes," Don – or Poseidon as I should call him now – replies. I can't help but notice how relieved he sounds. For some reason, that makes me smile.

I take a deep breath and jump.

I over the edge like Alice going down the rabbit hole. From above, the fall had looked short, a few feet at most but it seems to go on forever. It feels a little like going down a glass elevator really fast. On the other side of the water, all around me, I can see fish watching me as I pass them, a blur of colours and shiny scales before they disappear from my view. I touch the ground with a soft bump onto golden sand. The ocean floor. It's not like anything I ever imagined. I had never imagined there to be a kingdom under the sea for one thing, but even the feel of the sand beneath my fingers and the warmth of the water is beyond anything I could have dreamed up. It is only when I look around me at the amazing city and gasp that I realise I can breathe. Looking down at my clothes, they seem perfectly dry. There is no way to deny the magic that fills every inch of this kingdom; it is in the fibre of its being.

I step away from the chute I'd just come down and Don touches down next to me. "What do you think?" he asks.

I am speechless. All this time I thought I'd been crazy, imagining mermaids and Cyclops when they didn't exist, but I'd been right. In front of my eyes, mermaids with colourful, scaly skin and long hair tied back with seaweed swim past. Their tails catch the light of the green fires that burn magically under water and shimmer. Some smile and nod at Poseidon and look at me curiously. But none stop to say hello. Instead, they continue their journeys along the paths that cut through towering marble buildings made in the Greek style.

"This place is magical," I sigh. It is the most beautiful place I have ever seen. There is something about it that makes me want to stay forever. But I know I can't; this place could never be my home.

"I'm glad you like it," Poseidon says. He sounds proud and he should be. If this place is his kingdom, he has every right to take pride in it. "I'll take you to my palace. We can talk in private and I'll explain everything."

He turns away, puts two fingers to his mouth and whistles like he's hailing a cab. In a matter of seconds, a large grey dolphin is at his side. It's much bigger than dolphins that I've seen on TV or at the zoo. It chatters excitedly when it sees Poseidon and bows.

"This is Delphin, my advisor," Poseidon says, laying a hand on the dolphin's back. "We'll reach the palace much quicker if you ride him."

"Ride him?" This is all too much. The marble city, the mythical creatures, and now a giant dolphin that I'm supposed to ride? My head swims as I try to process all the information. It's so ridiculous that it can't just be a dream. This is real.

Poseidon tells me how to straddle the dolphin like a horse. I went horse riding once but sitting on Delphin feels nothing like riding a pony. His skin is slippery and hard to hold on to, and though he stays still while I settle down, I am paralysed with fear at the thought of falling off his back.

"Delphin is very used to carrying passengers," Poseidon reassures me, "He won't let you fall off. I'll follow behind you."

Poseidon pats Delphin's back and he shoots off. I hang on, clutching his sides, as tightly as I can as we speed through the streets. After a few minutes, I get used to the slippery ride and look around the city. There are not only mermaids but saltwater nymphs and sea creatures I can't name. We pass through a market selling fish, clothes made out of shells and seaweed and armour. There is a park where tiny mer-children chase each other, their colourful faces contorted with laughter. It's just like home.

We reach Poseidon's palace in a matter of minutes. Delphin stops outside the gates and I gasp at the sight of it. The spires reach up for hundreds of feet, so high that it's a wonder they don't break the surface. The marble reflects the water, shimmering gold and blue and a thousand other ever-changing colours. Multicoloured flowers grow in the lawns that stretch before the palace and decorate the windows. Two strong looking mermen with green-tinged skin and bronze tridents guard the coral gates. The gates tell the stories from the legends: Poseidon creating horses out of sea-foam, battling evil Titans and sea monsters, brandishing his trident to release his wrath. Though the pictures are beautiful, the man in them doesn't look anything like the Don I fell in love with. He looks like a fierce king, not the boy with the charming smile that I thought I knew.

When the guards see Poseidon with us, they bow deeply, their tridents grazing the sand. The stand aside and the gates slide open.

"That will be all, Delphi," Poseidon says to the dolphin, who bows and swims away. To me he says, "Follow me." He takes my hand and I feel myself relax. It feels so familiar and almost makes me forget how things have changed so fast.

We walk through endless corridors which are decorated lavishly with tapestries and paintings and up a long, spiralling staircase. The palace's interior is beautiful but Poseidon pulls me along so quickly that I can't take it all in. When we reach the top of the stairs, Poseidon lays his hand on the wooden door which swings open at his touch.

The room inside must be his; it's fit for a king. It is decorated in blues and greens, the colours of the sea, and a huge green fire burns in the hearth. It is quite simply furnished, with a few chaise lounges and carefully woven tapestries but most of the room is taken up by a huge bed.

"All of this is yours?" I ask, still unable to believe it. It strikes me then how little thought I had given to where Don actually lived. I hadn't thought it would be a whole kingdom that he had for himself.

Just for a second, I feel a little bitter. All of this that he has is more than I ever will, no matter how hard I work. But I shake the feeling away. He can't help the family he was born into any more than I can.

"Please sit down, Sally," he says, guiding me to a chaise. He sounds nervous again and clears his throat uncomfortable. He pours himself a golden drink from a decanter on a table and begins to pour me some before stopping himself. He pours a glass of wine instead and offers it to me. "Ambrosia," he says, like that should explain everything. "It's a godly drink but it would kill a mortal."

I take the wine but I don't drink it. "So it's true," I sigh. The truth feels heavy in my chest. "You're a god."

"The god of the sea, Poseidon, yes," he says wearily. "It's a title that I've been wishing I could shake for a while now."

"Well," I says, reclining in my seat, "You can't. If the myths are true –"

"They are."

"Then you're stuck this way forever."

Poseidon puts a hand to his eyes and suddenly, he doesn't look like a young, teenage boy. His expression is a thousand years old, full of exhaustion and pain. "I didn't choose this, Sally. Please don't be angry at me for not telling you sooner."

"I'm not," I say and it's true. I am shocked and a little scared but I'm not angry. It's not an easy thing to tell and there is no way to say it that makes it believable. If I wasn't here, if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I would never have believed him.

Poseidon pulls his hand away from his face and reaches it out to me. I take it and he squeezes my hand. He takes a swig of his ambrosia and begins his explanation. "Those stories I told you, the Greek myths, they're all true. Of course, you've probably figured that out by now. The Olympian gods are immortal. We cannot die, no matter how much we may want to at times. Over centuries, we have thrived with the most powerful societies in the world. When we left Greece, we went to Rome. We moved all over the world and now, we reside in the United States of America, the most powerful society in the twentieth century. If you look closely, you'll see how much influence we still have over your country.

"Usually, humans can't see us because our magic is concealed by the Mist, a magical force which hides our world from yours. But you can see through it. There are very few people who can."

"I can see through the Mist?" I say, mostly to myself. It explains why I have always been able to see the fantastical things that no one else could. My uncle had told me I had an overactive imagination but I had never imagined the creatures I saw. They had all been real.

"Yes, there are some mortals that have always had this power. They're special people but they're lives can be ruined by what they see," he pauses and looks at me apologetically. "They can be driven to insanity or thought to be insane by others."

That could have been me. If Poseidon hadn't told me this, I might have ended up crazy in a home somewhere, raving about the beasts that only I could see. It makes me shudder to think that could even have been a possibility.

"But if you're Poseidon," I say slowly. The realisation puts a heavy pressure on my heart, making it hard to breathe. "Does that mean everything else in the myths is true too? You're married, aren't you?" A sob threatens to escape but instead it lodges in my throat. "Was I just some conquest? A twentieth century fling? What, are kids in a thousand years going to learn about stupid Sally Jackson that gave her heart to the god of the sea believing she stood a chance of actually finding love? How could you lie to me? You said you loved me."

"No, Sally!" Poseidon insist, squeezing my hand but I pull away.

How can he say no? My tale is the same as the ones I have read about the foolish mortal women that gave themselves to the gods and were left heartbroken. The only difference is that I will get to walk away from this. My heart feels like falling to pieces in my chest and every heaving breath aches like a blow to the chest.

"Take me home, please," I beg. "Take me home."

"Sally, listen to me," Poseidon pleads. His voice breaks me. He sounds like he needs me, no matter how stupid that seems. I make the mistake of turning back to face him and when my eyes meet his, I can't look away. They are grey and heavy with sadness and in that moment, all I feel for him is the love I can't ignore. "I didn't lie when I said I love you. I do, so much. Amphitrite means _nothing _to me. I am bound to her by the legends, not by love. I couldn't leave her even if I wanted to. You've never been second best, I promise you. I haven't loved another woman like you."

He turns away from me and goes to stand by a window. He looks out across his kingdom and when he speaks, his voice is thick with unshed tears. "I have all of this but it is not enough. They are my subjects, my people, not my family. My immortal family is broken beyond repair, too damaged for me to love unconditionally. You made me forget all that. I love you, Sally. Even if you don't believe me, it doesn't change that. I love you."

I wish he would stop saying that. I wish he had been proud, arrogant and unlikable which would make walking away from him easier. I wish he had said that he'd loved a thousand women before me and he had loved them better. I don't want him to say he loves me. I don't want him to say I am special. I want him to hate me so I can hate him back.

But instead we are trapped in this way, loving each other and having nothing to show for it. Knowing who he really is doesn't make me hate him. Maybe it should but instead, I feel sad for him. He is a god, he has everything anyone could wish for, but nothing that he needs. I wonder if anyone, his brothers, his wife or his children, really love him. I do. I can't change that.

"I love you too," I whisper.

I step forward, into his arms, and I know there is no going back from this. My life will never be the same.


	12. Chapter 12

We sit and talk for what must be hours but with him, under the ocean, it's hard to tell how much time has passed. Poseidon tells me about his family and his past, not disguising them as myths anymore. In the minutes that pass, I actually feel closer to him. I can't help but feel that, despite the hardships I've been through, he had it a lot worse. Growing up in a family forever divided, living through horrific wars, plagues and disasters and never being able to get away from it all must take its toll. His eyes get darker as he speaks and I can almost see the ghosts of his past in them.

When finally he has run out of words, I don't know what to say. "I'm sorry" seems like such a feeble reaction. I swallow the words; they won't help anything. Instead, I ask him one last question. "Why was Zeus so angry about you and me? He didn't want us to be together but why? If I remember the myths correctly, he never seemed to have any problems with having relationships with mortals."

Poseidon smiles wryly, "Yes, Zeus was always the most – uh – enthusiastic, shall we say, about mortal the women. But that was before we took the oath."

Something about his words makes me uncomfortable and I shift in my seat, trying to find a more relaxing position. "What oath?" I ask.

Poseidon takes a deep breath before he starts to speak. He doesn't meet my eyes when he says, "After the Second World War, my brothers, Zeus, Hades and I swore upon the River Styx not to have any more children. We saw what they could do, the destruction they could cause when they became too powerful. The others gods' children are powerful too, of course. But our demigod children were too strong, too easily made angry and their wrath was uncontrollable. They caused terrible wars in the past but none as terrible as World War Two. We swore we could never let that happen again and we made an unbreakable vow." He laughs dryly at the last part and shakes his head.

"Did the others keep their promise?" I ask. The bitterness in his voice had indicated that perhaps they hadn't.

"Zeus has a daughter," Poseidon says resentfully, "And another on the way, no doubt, since he keeps pursuing the woman. He may act high and mighty but he was the first to break the vow. Then we found out about Hades. His son and daughter were born before the vow was made but they couldn't be allowed to live. There is a prophecy that speaks of the destruction of the gods and we couldn't let a child of Hades be involved in that. But Hades hid them somewhere beyond our reach, a safe place."

It doesn't seem fair or even logical, I think, for his brother to be so self-righteous. I think of the way Zeus seemed unable to control his anger and how close he had come to threatening Poseidon or me. He has a daughter and a relationship with a mortal woman. He has _no_ right to interfere in our relationship. I clench my fists in my lap, suddenly angry with this man I barely know. He was the only obstacle in the one perfect thing I had ever had in my life.

And then, I was so tired of always following the rules. I had never been the loud girl, the rebellious girl. I had never broken the rules. I had always been the one to play it safe. When I left school, it wasn't an act of rebellion; it was the good girl thing to do to help my uncle. Once, just once, I wanted something for myself without having to worry about the consequences.

"I want this relationship, Poseidon," I say. I can hear the anger and the tiredness in my voice. And something else: the desperate need for something to go my way. "I don't care what Zeus says. He can have things his way but we can't?"

Poseidon looks pained by what I said. I had expected him to be happier that I wanted this, that I wanted him. "Sally, this would only put you in danger."

"Then I will learn how to protect myself," I say firmly. "This isn't one of those myths you told me. This is my life. There is no time to play the damsel in distress, waiting to be saved. If I need to, I can save myself."

Poseidon looks at me, quiet for a few moments. Then his face splits into a smile and I feel a bump of love for this broken, beautiful man that changed everything. He leans over to me and scoops me up into his arms. He puts his lips close to mine. "You're a queen among women, Sally," he smiles.

He kisses me, again and again. There is no one here to tell us no. I don't want this, I _need _this. His hands feel familiar against my skin as he pulls me closer. I can feel his heart thumping beneath my finger tips. He pulls me on to his lap and I wrap my legs around his waist. His lips against mine are a silent question and I have only one response – _yes_.

I am so, so alive.


	13. Chapter 13

I stand on cold, dry land alone. The ocean before me is still and black in the night. It is almost impossible to think that a whole world lies beneath it, a world which I will never be able to call home.

Poseidon had offered, begged even, for me to stay. He'd said, "I can build you your own palace right here, Sally. We could be together forever."

And I had been tempted; I had wanted it so badly. I had thought about all the things that I would be happy to leave behind: girls like Lucille, my lonely life in New York, the bills and rent and the endless hunt to keep myself employed. None of that would be a concern any more. I could be free.

But then I thought about all the things I would have to leave behind. The little bit of money I had saved to attend night classes at the community college would be wasted. I would never become a writer. All the hopes and dreams I had built myself would be worthless. I would have a future but the future wouldn't be one I had achieved. It felt like cheating and I knew I would never feel like I belonged in that world.

So I had told him no. He had looked away, not in an angry or disappointed way, but like he knew that I would turn him down. He had fastened a blue coral pendant around my neck to remember him. As if I could ever forget.

We both knew what would come nine months from now. I would become a mother. He'd broken the vow and we knew that the consequences would be dangerous for all of us, him, me and the baby.

"You mustn't tell them what they are," Poseidon had told me, "Once they know, it becomes easier for monsters to find them. When the baby is old enough, there is a safe place for demigod children in Long Island. It's called Camp Half-Blood. They will be safe there and train to defend themselves. Keep the baby safe, Sally. I will do all I can to keep the gods at bay. They will not touch my child, but the monsters on land are harder to control."

He'd laid a protective hand on my stomach and I had known then that this wasn't just some fling. He was going to be a father and took his responsibility seriously. I knew he would do anything too protect his unborn child. He loved it even though it was barely formed. I felt tears prick my eyes when I realised that our baby would grow up fatherless. He could never know what kind of man his dad was. I knew how that felt, now my child would feel it too.

"And keep yourself safe, Sally," Poseidon had pleaded, "The baby will attract monsters but they're not likely to go after mortals. Even so, make me a promise. When the baby is older and more powerful, send them away to boarding schools, hostels, convents – anywhere. Don't let them lead the monsters to you. Promise?"

I had promised, of course I had. How could I have denied him when he looked so vulnerable, not because he was in danger but because I was?

I knew I couldn't see him anymore in Montauk. Being around me would attract too much attention from the gods, he'd said. Especially Zeus. I knew our goodbyes would be final. I had kissed him one last time, not wanting to ever forget the feel of his hands, the taste of his smile against mine. I wanted to memorise him.

And then I had gone, carried back to the shore by Delphin, and now I stand alone at the water's edge. I wonder if he can see me, if he's watching for me as I am watching for him in the waves. My love for him is greater than the distance between us; I know it because I feel it consume me as I look out across the waves.

I turn away from the shore, away from him, and make my way back to my life.

* * *

"Hey there, girl," Moira greets me when I walk through the kitchen door. He voice is cheerful and carefree. She seems so happy that I feel bad walking in with my face sticky with tears and eyes I know must be red from crying. I don't want to ruin her evening.

But it takes her all of two seconds to notice that something is wrong. "Sweetie, what's wrong?" She has me enveloped in a hug before I can answer.

I can't help myself. I cry and cry against the shoulder of her white nightgown. Her soothing words drown my muffled sobs and she runs her fingers through my hair, calming me down. She's warm and comforting and she is the mother I have never had. I don't know much about mothers but when I had imagined what mine would be like, I had not imagined a mildly eccentric artist with the ability to burn anything. But I had imagined this love, this comfort, and Moira is to me what no one else can ever be. She is family and I love her. I don't want to let go. I have done too much of that already tonight.

Moira gently pulls away when I have calmed down and sits me down, shooing Travis from his resting spot on the seat. She makes two mugs of steaming hot cocoa and sits across from me, holding my hand. "What happened, darling?" she asks softly.

"He had to go," I say, quite truthfully which is what makes me well up again, "His family need him back home and he had to leave. We can't see each other anymore. It's stupid really, to cry about it, but –"

"Nonsense," Moira says, "It's never stupid to cry about anything. People have this mistaken idea that crying is a sign of weakness. Well, that's the stupidest thing I have ever heard. I heard someone say one time that crying doesn't mean you're weak, it means you've been strong for too long.

"My sister, the lady on the wall up there, she passed away from cancer over five years ago. She was everything to me and, would you believe it, we only knew each other for a few months. Our parents were separated and she lived with our mom and I lived with her dad. We never really knew each other. But when she got ill and she needed me, she came down here and I swear to you, I never loved a person so much as I loved my sister. She was my whole family and when she went, I think a part of me went with her. I still cry for her sometimes. Who's to say I can't just because we hadn't been close our whole lives?

"Love doesn't take a lifetime, Sally. If it's there, it's something undeniable from the moment you meet. And when that's gone, it hurts but it only hurts because it was important. Real love takes a lifetime and then some to forget. So you go ahead and cry about it, love."

We sit together on the living room couch. She doesn't, not once, tell me she needs to sleep and she should go. She stays with me and I feel myself fall asleep with my head in her lap.


	14. Chapter 14

The next morning, I come close to calling in sick for work. I do feel sick. I drink two glasses of water but my throat feels insatiably dry and eyes still hurt from crying last night. Moira had tucked me in on the couch instead of moving me which had been kind but back ached from lying on the uncomfortable seat for hours. But no going in would be admitting defeat to myself – and to Lucille. I don't want to be that girl that lies in bed and cries all day. So I force myself out of bed and head to work.

The sea is grey and lifeless and, for some reason, this comforts me. I think it means he misses me as much as I miss him. It makes me feel better knowing that he is there, always there, even if he's not by my side. I want to linger by the water forever but Liza will kill me if I'm late for work so I turn away again.

"Morning, doll," Liza says when I walk into the kitchen. She seems happy despite Poseidon's absence. I wonder what he has told her of is he has manipulated the Mist to make her forget him.

"Good morning, Liza," I reply. "Morning, all."

"So I hear you sent my best fisherman running," Liza chuckles. "He called last night all desperate to go back to Greece, saying his brother needs him to come home. See what you did? Where am I going to get fish like that now?" She laughs again and I know she's joking. I laugh too to humour her but I probably don't do a very good job at lying because she looks at me sympathetically and squeezes my arm. I think that's about as far sympathy goes with Liza and I'm grateful for it.

"So you were _that_ bad that ran away?" Lucille smirks from her workstation. She's chopping onions and the tears are making her mascara run. She looks a little crazy and it makes me smile in spite of myself.

"Well, actually –" I begin to say but I am cut off by Jean.

"So did Brad, would you believe it," Jean says to me. "He broke up with Lucille yesterday. Something about how she was acting like a _bitch_." I am surprised by the bitterness in Jean's voice. I had always thought that she worshipped Lucille.

"What did you just say?" Lucille says incredulously. She's holding her knife dangerously close to Jean's face.

"I said you were acting like a bitch," Jean replies nonchalantly, "You were all of yesterday and you are today. And you made it seem like I was the one that had a problem with Don dating Sally when it was you. You played me like a scapegoat. Just get over it, Lucille. Don didn't like you."

Lucille is looking at Jean with her mouth hanging open. Neither of us knows what to say. I feel happy for Jean that she's finally found her voice and happier still that she's using it to help me.

"If you think I'm driving you home today you're wrong," Lucille snaps.

"Whatever," Jean is says, rolling her eyes and tossing her hair in the most perfect imitation of Lucille, before walking away.

If looks could kill, Jean and I would both be dead. But thankfully they can't so we spent the rest of the day working together. It felt good to know I'm not alone in anything. I may have lost Poseidon but I have friend here. I will be okay.

Life goes on and for the first time, I am happy to go along with it.


	15. Chapter 15

The start of winter creeps on me like the chilly ocean breeze that hints at winter. One day, I am planning for my last day at Cafe Elpida and then it's there, unavoidable, forcing me to go back to New York City.

In a way, it's a blessing in disguise. It's two months now that I've been pregnant and it's becoming harder and harder to avoid the curious questions. Last week, I woke up in the morning and rushed to the bathroom only to be violently sick for the first time. I told Moira it must have been some bad shrimp I ate and she believed me. It was harder to lie the second time and I learned to be quiet about it so she wouldn't ask any more questions by the time the fifth time rolled around. Liza's convinced I've got a bladder infection from the amount of times I need to take toilet breaks. I tried to be coy about it be she has eyes like a hawk. Things are only going to get more obvious and, for some reason, I don't really want to tell anyone about the baby. It seems too personal.

But I can't deny there is another reason too. I can't shake the fear that they'll judge me. It's what people have done all my life, everyone from my best friend's mother to my employers. It feels like I would be proving them all right.

On my last day though, I would give anything to put the world on hold and just stay in Montauk. Just for a few more days. Leaving Montauk means leaving behind everything I've found here: friends, a family and, of course, Poseidon. Going away means leaving him behind properly. I want to be able to see him one last time, just to say goodbye, but he'd made it pretty clear that the last time we saw each other was the final time. I have tried everything, waited by the sea for hours, but he never comes. It's time I accepted that what we had is over but something new is beginning. Soon, we'll have a baby, an unbreakable bond that will tie us together forever.

For my last day at work, a Sunday, Liza makes me a special omelet for breakfast and I finish the whole thing even though I had cereal before coming. I don't want her to think I am ungrateful for everything she's given me. It's Jean's last day too so we have a little celebration in the kitchen after closing early with canapés and what Liza calls 'bubbly' but is really sparkling grape juice.

"I don't know what I'm going to do this fall with y'all gone and Don too," Liza says, sounding genuinely sad that we would be leaving. "I'm gonna be stuck here with only Mason who don't talk and Lucille the drama queen." She says the last part jokingly and Mason laughs but Lucille rolls her eyes. I am going to miss her least.

I hug Jean and Mason and Lucille manages a sharp nod before focusing her attention on her drink. Liza pulls me into a tight hug and I whisper, "Thank you," in her ear. If it hadn't been for her, I never would have come to Montauk. Everything that happened was only possible because of her.

"You're a good girl, Sally," Liza says to me, "You're gonna go far in life, I can see it now. Send me a copy of your book when you get published, eh?"

"I will," I promise her, laughing.

Jean and I walk together and when we've left the cafe behind, she says, "I honestly wasn't mad at you, Sally. I should have said something sooner."

"No," I reply, "You were really brave when you stood up to Lucille. It couldn't have been easy and, honestly, I think it's one of the first times someone really stood up for me."

Jean smiles. "Don was cute, don't get me wrong," she says, "But I was never after him. Uh, it's not like that for me. But people surprise you and your opinion changes and someone you thought was awesome can turn out to be downright awful. But, hey, you move on."

It dawns on me what she's saying and I have to ask, "Wait, _Lucille_?"

Jean laughs, "Hey, don't judge me, ok? She's, like, really pretty."

"I'm sorry but I would have thought that the peroxide hair would have made her bitch status pretty clear," I say and I can't help but laugh along.

"It looks pretty natural!" Jean insists, "And she did a good job of playing nice girl."

"That she did," I agree.

After a few moments of silence, Jean says, "I'm going to miss you, Sally. I'm going to miss this job."

I take her hand and squeeze it. I'm glad to have been able to get to know Jean. We weren't that close but she's a girl and she's fun to be around. I regret not spending more time with her when I could have. "Me too, Jean," I say. "I'm going to miss this place like crazy."

* * *

The walk up Moira's drive has never felt longer. I know with every step closer to the front door, I am closer to a goodbye. It's going to be the hardest to say farewell to Moira. She is the funny aunt, the caring mother and the wise friend I have never had all in one. She gave up her house to me but, more than that, her time and her friendship.

I turn the key in the lock, trying to memorise what colour the doorknob is and the way the sunset looks from the front porch so I can save them for a rainy day. I take in the walls I helped to paint in my free afternoons and the garden I brought back to life with Poseidon. It comforts me knowing that I'll leave my mark on this house. It can't forget me.

"I'm home," I call out to Moira when I enter through the front door. Over the past few weeks, I haven't really thought about it but it strikes me as funny how easily I can call this house a home and never really feel that way about my own apartment.

"In the kitchen," comes Moira's reply.

The house smells like flour and chocolate and the warm scent of bread baking wafts through the kitchen door. The kitchen in a mess of spilled milk and ghostly, floury fingerprints mark the cupboard doors and countertops.

"What is happening in here?" I ask, though the answer is pretty clear.

"I'm _baking_," Moira hoots, "I'm actually doing it! It's been in the oven for almost the whole time and – look! – no burning!"

"Moira!" I laugh, "You did it!"

"Well," she says quietly, "I figured I better do something special for your last day."

She turns away, clattering with pots and pans in the sink, but I catch her expression before she can hide it. Her eyes are red and puffy and something tells me it's not from the baking. I think of how lonely Moira truly is out here on her own. Not once does she leave the house except to go grocery shopping. She never calls anyone; no one calls her. She has Travis for company but that's it. I've been lonely long enough to know how it hurts.

"Hey, Moira," I say, sitting myself down at the kitchen table, "Would you mind if I called from time to time? From New York, I mean. I get kind of lonely by myself."

I don't mention that I won't be lonely for much longer, that soon I'll have a baby and he'll be the light of my life. But that is still nine months away. I could use her company as much she could use mine.

"Well, I'll have to see," Moira replies, "I have a _very_ busy schedule, you know. Phone ringing off the hook and that sort of thing." She laughs and I join in. She comes over to give me a hug and says, "Please call, Sally. Call everyday if you want to."

A sharp ring cuts me off as I'm about to respond and Moira rushes away to take the cake out of the oven. She winces as she touches the hot tray without her oven mitts and manages to take it out the second time, her hand suitably protected.

"Ta da!" she announces, brandishing the cake proudly, "The first ever cake Mora DeLonge ever baked by herself."

I clap and can't stop smiling. Moira did this for me. The cake is steaming and smells delicious. The whole kitchen is filled with the smell of cocoa and, in the golden light from the setting sun, it looks like a scene from a fairytale book.

"It's perfect."


	16. Chapter 16

My New York apartment is much colder than I expected. I turn the heat on, hoping it'll warm up the rooms quickly, and I wrap a blanket around my shoulders. How did summer pass so quickly? I can still see Moira waving from her front porch until she disappeared in the rearview mirror. Winter came late this year, making October and November feel like summer too. But now, the December air is freezing. The storefronts are decorated with Christmas trees and fake snow. It's hard to feel the festive cheer when the happiest days of my life are behind me.

But I haven't left anything behind, not really. Moira's phone number, written on a scrap of paper, rests on my bedside table. Cafe Elpida still stands, waiting for me if I ever return. And Poseidon will be with me always. He lights up my fondest memories and he is in my every thought when I think back to the summer. And he is with me in the baby that will soon be ours, mine to hold and to love and keep forever.

I fold my hands across my stomach. There is no bump yet but knowing the baby is there makes me feel less alone. "This is home," I whisper, knowing they can't hear me but finding comfort in it all the same. "I'll find you a crib and you'll have brand new clothes to wear when you're born. And I'll read you the stories my uncle read me and bake you chocolate cake like Moira's when you get your teeth. I will love you so, so much.

I already do. This baby will be my life now. I need to find a new job and go see the doctor. It won't be easy but I'm starting to realise that the best things in life never are.


	17. Epilogue

_A young woman stands by the shore of Montauk bay, a small baby cradled in her arms. She looks out across the sea as if waiting for someone, as if the sea were more than just the tumultuous waves and clear blue water. She is pretty, with a kind face and she smiles as she points out a gull flying overhead to her baby. But something about her face is tired, like she was forced to grow up before her time. _

_The child in her hands is a year old at most and looks perfectly content in his mother's arms. His bright, green eyes took in the world with wonder, drinking in the sea and the open sky thirstily with his admiring gaze. The wind ruffles his dark hair and he laughs, finding joy in the simplest thing. His mother laughs with him and holds him tighter. He buries his head in her shoulder and lets out a small yawn. Though he is still so young, it is clear to any onlooker that the baby loves his mother almost as fiercely as she loves him._

_When they have grown tired of the sea, the pair walks away from the water and the young woman spreads out a beach blanket on the sand. While her son plays with his brightly coloured toys, she stares out across the sea once more._

_"Poseidon," she whispers. She waits as if she expects a response, but when none comes, she turns back to her baby, helping him scoop up sand into a small, blue bucket._

_"Sally?"_

_If one word could stop the world, for the young woman, Sally, it was the sound of his voice saying her name. She looks up at the man that stands before her and he is just as she remembered. She had memorised the colour of his skin and the way his black hair fell across his forehead, and the way his eyes shined when he was happy. They are gleaming now when he sees them on his beach, the light of his life with their son._

_"Poseidon!" Sally exclaims, scrambling to her feet and throwing her arms around his neck. She breathes the smell of him in, feeling like she is where she is meant to be for the first time in a long time. "You came."_

_"Of course I came," Poseidon replies, "I have waited so long to see you. Is this him? Is this our son?"_

_Sally bends to scoop the baby up from the blanket. He squirms, hating to be pulled away from his toys, but settles down quickly. "This is Percy," Sally says, holding him against her hip, "Perseus, actually. Percy for short."_

_"Percy," Poseidon beams, "It is the perfect name for a hero. Brought the original Perseus luck if remember rightly. Can I hold him?"_

_Sally shifts Percy from her hip and holds him out to his father. "He's not very good with strangers," she says apologetically._

_But when Poseidon takes Percy in his arms, the baby stops squirming and lies perfectly still in his arms. Children are often not given the credit they deserve. At times, their knowledge surpasses that of adults, and Percy knows exactly who he is with. In the arms of the sea god, he is truly home. He belongs to the sea, he always will, and he feels its power in the hands of the man that holds him._

_"Hello, Percy," Poseidon says softly, "I'm your father. You're a beautiful boy. Your eyes are just like the sea. I can see you'll be powerful, my boy. You'll grow up to be the greatest hero of your generation, I know it. You're my son aren't you?" He chuckles and the baby gurgles, echoing his laugh happily. "I wish I could stay with you, my son. I wish it was possible to see you every day, and your mother. But there is no point dwelling on the impossible, is there? You have to go with your mother, Percy. Grow up and be brave and strong, but above all, be a good man. Make me proud. I love you, son. I love you."_

_The three sit together, the picture of a perfect family, in the setting sun. Sally leans against Poseidon and they look down at their child, the boy they both love the most, and they know he will always be their greatest treasure. _

_"I will hold the monsters back as much as I can, Sally," Poseidon says quietly, "I won't break my promise. No harm can come to him. You have to do what you can to keep him safe. The best way is to surround him with mortals, mask his scent so the monsters can't track him down."_

_"I will," Sally replies, her voice strong. For her baby, she would go to the depths of the underworld and back. "I'll keep him safe."_

_Poseidon leans over and kisses her forehead. "I have to go back to my world," he says regretfully, "And you to yours. Find happiness, Sally. I always love you, you know that."_

_"Me too, Poseidon," Sally says, blinking back tears. Separation had hurt the first time but now, when they had finally had the chance to be a happy family, saying goodbye felt like being torn in two. _

_As the sun dips over the horizon, bleeding red across the sky, the couple stands to rise. Poseidon hands the baby over to his mother, looking lovingly at him one last time. His smile is one Percy will remember for the rest of his life, a golden glow against the summer sky. Even when he forgets his father's face in years to come and forgets this meeting, he will remember the way his father smiled when he saw him. _

_"Say bye-bye to your daddy, Percy," Sally says, picking up Percy's tiny hand and making him wave. The baby laughs, a bittersweet sounds that rings out across the beach._

_"Goodbye, Percy," Poseidon smiles sadly, "Goodbye, Sally."_

_Poseidon turns to walk away, heading towards the sea with long strides. He jumps into the water, comes up once to wave at the two lone figures on the shore, before disappearing beneath the waves for the last time._

* * *

**AN: So that's where I am choosing to end this story. I could have gone into nine months worth of detail about the pregnancy but, frankly, I don't think that would have been that interesting to read. Just watch _Juno_. It pretty much nails the angsty emotions. If you read this far, reviewed, followed and favourited, thank you, thank you, thank you. I really hope you liked the story and if you did, you are already one of the best people to ever exist. **

**I want to give special thanks to Mandi2341 for her help and to pinkiepie0706 for being an awesome reader. Thanks so much to both of you! **

**It would feel really wrong to end the story without crediting the songs that helped me write it in the first place because I listened to them 24/7 while writing:**

**| Holiday (Interlude) - Paramore | Everything Has Changed - Taylor Swift | I See The Light - Mandy Moore & Zachary Levi form the Tangled OST | Bubbly - Colbie Caillat | Still Young - Neon Trees | Fool With Dreams - Framing Hanley | Proof - Paramore | Lasso - The Band Perry | Say Goodbye (Acoustic) - Skillet | I Can't Not Love You - Every Avenue | Back To Me Without You - The Band Perry | See You Again - Carrie Underwood |**

**I don't know if I have said it enough times but thank you for reading my story!**


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